The Art of Seducing a Naked Werewolf (Naked Werewolf 2)

DO YOU KNOW how annoying it is to suspect something but not be able to do anything about it? I didn’t know if these “happenings” were a focused effort to harass my pack or someone with a really lame sense of humor. I didn’t have a suspect. I couldn’t even give a description beyond “smells like flowers.” There was no interpack police agency. There was nothing to do, other than contacting Alan to complain about hunters getting too close to the border between the nature preserve and the valley.

Oh, and I finally told the pack about the “bagging” incident, which, along with Samson’s shooting, helped them realize exactly how serious the problem was. Cooper and Samson had the decency to wait until the rest of the pack was gone before lighting into me for not telling anyone. Mom was so angry I thought she was going to try to take me over her knee. Instead, she hugged Nick and thanked him for helping her idiot daughter.

Signs were posted. We expanded the perimeter into the preserve. We patrolled in threes. No one left the confines of town by themselves. Whenever possible, the kids were kept inside, which was driving the parents and Teresa insane.

I was running myself into the ground. I was coming to depend on Nick more and more, which scared the hell out of me. When I came home and collapsed after all-night patrols, he was the one who dragged me into my room and tucked me in. He made sure there was food nearby when I woke up. On more than one occasion, he bathed me, but that was more recreational than anything else.

My deranged sister-in-law, she kept plying me with wedding magazines and books on how to be a beautiful happy fluffy princess bride. I think she saw it as some helpful way to take my mind off the pack’s troubles, which was woefully inaccurate. I wanted to elope. In fact, I spent several days campaigning diligently for a chapel in Vegas. But Mom and Mo convinced me that it would be a shabby move for the alpha to run off and get married without the pack being able to see it. Plus, it would be a nice gesture to invite other packs to the wedding. Mo actually used the words “political maneuver.” Sometimes that woman scared me.

I’d never been one for change. I liked my routine. I liked knowing what to expect. But now, I’d changed my plans, my expectations, by choosing someone completely outside the realm of what I expected, and I had change coming out the ying-yang. It was as if I’d opened a little door and the whole world was opening up.

I was still on the fence about to whether that was a good thing.

So, I did what I could to maintain normalcy and escape the house, which included regular visits to see Billie. Alicia was also looking a little the worse for wear lately, and she appreciated it when she could step out of the house to take a walk or do . . . whatever it was that she did with Samson. I tried not to think about it.

“Alicia!” I called as I came through Billie’s door. “My mom made a blueberry pie. It’s Billie’s favorite.”

My ears pricked up as I closed the door behind me. There was an odd stillness to the house. No TV blaring cartoon songs from the next room. No thunder of little running feet. The only sound was the dryer running in the utility room. The rusty scent of dried blood spiraled out of the kitchen, raising the hairs on my arms. The instinct to change, to defend, was overwhelming. I had to force myself to stay in my human shape.

I dropped the pie, breaking china and splattering purple goo over my boots. I inhaled deeply, searching for some sign of an intruder.

I crept on silent feet toward the table where I used to sit and eat Lucky Charms on the mornings after Eli slept over at our house. Mom would send me to Aunt Billie’s for sleepovers, so Billie wouldn’t get lonely. I wanted to be that little girl again, in the Smurf nightshirt, with nothing to worry about but which cartoon to fit into her Saturday-morning schedule. Time seemed to stop in my head, and I couldn’t force myself to approach the source of that rust smell.

Well, screw that, I was Maggie Graham. I wasn’t scared of anything.

Squaring my shoulders, I strode through the front room to the kitchen. Flour was spilled across the counter. A jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread sat open near the stove, with sticky slices strewn on the floor. I stepped around the corner and saw faded pink slippers on still, splayed feet. Billie was on her side, wearing her favorite blue plaid housecoat. There was a kitchen knife just out of her reach, by her right hand. Her hair was matted with red. The corner of the counter near the fridge was crusted with dried, brick-colored blood.

“Oh, no,” I murmured. “Oh, no. Aunt Billie, no.”

I dropped to my knees. I clasped her wrist in my fingers but found no pulse. The body was still warm, but her eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling. There was no spark. There was nothing to be done for her.

I laid gentle fingers on her eyelids and closed them. I leaned over, my forehead almost touching her hands. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

She’d hit her head. That much was clear. Had she passed out? Tripped? Pushed? Where was Alicia? Why wasn’t someone with her?

I kneeled there for what felt like hours. I heard chatter from just outside the back door. Alicia was leading the boys up the stairs. I ran for the door. “Keep the boys outside,” I told her.

Alicia blanched at my tone. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Billie . . .” I said, glancing down at the boys, who were clamoring for juice and SpongeBob.

The color drained from Alicia’s face. “No. I just left for a few minutes. I took the boys out to play. The weather was so nice for once. And she was taking a nap. I thought it would be OK.”

I put my hand on her shoulder and offered her a reassuring squeeze. “She must have gotten up. She was in the kitchen.”

Alicia seemed to be gasping for air as tears welled in her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”

“Don’t.” I squeezed her shoulder and shook it gently. “You took good care of her, Alicia. Why don’t you take the boys to my mom’s? I’ll stay here. You call Dr. Moder.”

“I think I should stay—”

“Alicia, you did everything you could for her. Let me take it from here. That’s my job. Get the kids away from here. You don’t want them to see this.”

Alicia nodded, robotically leading the boys down the front steps. Dropping to my knees, I sat next to Billie and waited.

I SAT AT my desk, staring into space. I kept waiting for tears or sweet, clarifying anger. But I was numb. My brain had shut down all emotional responses in some sort of survival mode. All I could do was list the dozens of things I needed to do.

I needed to call Matthew, Billie’s great-nephew. I needed to go through Billie’s papers and try to figure out what accounts needed to be closed, whether she had a will. We needed to plan the service. Mom had stepped in to pick the music and the flowers. Samson and Clay had volunteered to make the casket, which was a pack tradition. We used a were-owned funeral home to sign off on the arrangements, so we didn’t have to worry about the state looking too closely at death certificates.